Belle of Batoche (3 page)

That night, Belle had to be told three times to bring hot water from the stove for the dishes. Finally, her mother put her hands on her hips and gave her daughter a knowing look.

“What is it, ma petite Belle? You don't seem very interested in getting these dishes clean.”

Belle looked at her mother, not wanting to tell her about Sarah, but finally relenting. “Someone else wants the job of bell ringer.” She poured hot water from a bucket onto the waiting dishes in the sink. Clouds of steam rose, blurring her vision.

“Oh really! Who?” her mother asked, scrubbing at the dishes, her hands turning red in the hot water.

“Sarah Johnson.” Belle tried to sound calm, but her mother gave her a sidelong glance.

“And this has you worried? Belle, you have the best voice in the choir and have been going to this church since you were born. Father Moulin will make the right choice. He's a fair man.”

Belle smiled. “And Sarah isn't even a member of the choir, which is one of the rules.” Her mother was right. Of course, she would be chosen. As fragrant coffee brewed on the stove, they finished the dishes in silence.

Belle helped her mother take the coffee, cups, milk and sugar into the living room where her father and Patrice were visiting with Jean Caron. Monsieur Caron had been one of the first settlers in the Batoche area and his son Pierre went to school with Belle. Pierre also sang in the choir at church.

“Monsieur Riel has sent a petition to Prime Minister Macdonald with our demands, but nothing is happening,” Monsieur Caron was saying when Belle returned
with a plate of freshly baked bannock and Saskatoon preserves.

“They want to survey our land in the English way, so that we will not have access to the river. Impossible! We also want representation in the Canadian Parliament, which the government won't give us.” Belle had heard these arguments before. She knew they were serious matters.

“And don't forget the government wants to tax us too!” Patrice added, reaching for a piece of bannock.

“After the battle at Duck Lake, they will not listen to us,” her father said. “Lives have been lost on both sides, but the English will only remember their own dead.”

Patrice put his cup down so hard some spilt over the edge into the saucer. “Then perhaps Monsieur Riel is right. We Metis should break away from Canada and form our own country where we can live in peace.”

Belle's mother motioned for her to leave and, reluctantly, she started up the stairs to bed. Sometimes when the men talked, she got a tight knot in her stomach. She
tried not to be afraid, but all the adults talked about lately were the troubles and how things were getting worse.

Early Sunday morning, Marie-Antoinette's clear voice called the people of Batoche to mass at St. Antoine de Padoue church.

Belle had taken special care with her braids this morning. She had even tried to shine her scuffed shoes. She'd put on her best green dress, the one her mother had embroidered with beautiful flowers so that it looked like a piece of a summer meadow had come to life.

She was excited as she sat in the pews at the side of the altar with the rest of the choir. Her parents and brother were in their usual seats. Her mother looked lovely in her black hat and Sunday dress and her father was positively handsome in his Sunday suit. Belle felt a surge of love for her parents.

She glanced at the rest of the children in the two choir pews. They didn't seem to be the least bit excited. But then, she thought,
they weren't going to be named the new bell ringer.

Miss Dorval walked over and called them to attention by tapping her ever-present ruler on the front railing of the pew. “Children, I have an announcement which I know you will all be very happy about.” Unease mixed with Belle's excitement. “I am pleased to introduce to you our newest choir member, Miss Sarah Johnson.” She nodded toward the congregation and Sarah, who had been sitting with her parents, stood up and marched over. She looked very pretty in her expensive gray wool coat with pink trim and she was wearing her new hat with the magical feather.

Shooting a triumphant grin at Belle, Sarah took a seat beside Pierre Caron, who was by himself in the front choir pew.

Belle's temper flared before she remembered where she was. This was a church, not the place to think bad thoughts. Instead, Belle turned to her hymnbook and smiled. Beside her, Marie Savant, who had a beautiful voice, nudged Belle with her elbow and giggled. Belle's smile widened just a little.

Pierre Caron was a nice enough fellow, but he was not a favorite of the other choir singers. He was nicknamed Windy Caron. Pierre had a digestion problem that made him not only noisy to stand beside, but impossible to breathe around. When Windy got wound up, no one could sing beside him.

The congregation rose as Father Moulin entered. There was a muffled rumble from the front pew. Sarah made a choking sound, then glared at Pierre, her hand flying to her nose.

“Before we get started today, mes amis, I have an announcement.” Father Moulin walked over to stand beside the choir. “As you know, we have been searching for a young person to be the official bell ringer here at St. Antoine de Padoue.” He smiled at the young singers. “We decided it was only fitting that this person should be chosen from the choir as Marie-Antoinette loves to sing as much as these children.”

Sarah tried to ease her way down the pew away from Windy, who had bragged to the rest of them that he'd feasted on fourteen pickled
pigs' feet last night and that his stomach didn't feel very good. Unfortunately for Sarah, the spare hymnbooks were piled in the pew beside her. She had nowhere to go.

“Until this week, my choice was easy. Only one brave soul wanted the job.” He smiled at Belle. “But as of this morning, we have two willing volunteers: Belle Tourond and Sarah Johnson.” The congregation murmured. “Choosing a winner is no easy task, but …” He paused, and Belle held her breath. “To be fair to both young ladies, I have decided to hold a contest. Miss Dorval suggested that each girl embroider a cloth suitable to adorn the altar. The girl whose work is judged the best will be our new bell ringer. Miss Dorval and I will decide on the winner two weeks from today, on May third. Good luck to both young ladies.”

Sarah, still not able to breathe easily, made a face that was as sour as Pierre's stomach.

Belle tried to look confident, but her heart was sinking fast. She could sing very well, but learning embroidery had never appealed to her.

4
Perfect Stitches and Hidden Ditches

Belle went to work. Why should she worry about Sarah when her own mother was the world's best when it came to fancy stitching? Hadn't she embroidered the tiny flowers on Belle's beautiful Sunday dress and didn't she sew all their clothes by hand?

Belle listened while her mother explained how to do various stitches and then she practiced on an old pillowcase while her mother looked for a suitable piece of material for the altar cloth.

“I know just what design I want to create,” Belle announced to her mother as she finished a rather lopsided French knot. “It will be a colorful pattern of prairie wildflowers
with big black-eyed Susans, bright blue harebells and pale pink wild roses and happy yellow buffalo beans in a field of brilliant green sweetgrass covering the entire cloth.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “My, that is ambitious!” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps a border of sweetgrass with the flowers twined together at the four corners of the cloth would be better, Belle. Embroidery done correctly takes many hours and I know you want to finish in time.” She held up a long rectangle of snow-white linen. “This was a wedding present from your grandmother. I've been saving it for something special.”

Belle's eyes went wide as she reached out to touch the cloth. “It's perfect,” she whispered, then she realized how much sewing it would take to cover the entire cloth with her flower design. “On second thought, perhaps you're right. A wonderful flower border would be most suitable for the altar cloth.” She ran to her workbook and ripped out a clean piece of paper. On this, she carefully drew the design she had in mind, and her mother suggested which stitches would work best.

“I think this outline stitch will help you make the flower patterns and you can use the satin stitch to fill in the petals.” Her mother showed Belle how to sew the stitches on the old pillowcase. Her fingers flew, and before Belle's amazed eyes a flower pattern took shape. “To finish, I think we should use the whipped stem stitch on the flowers to give the design more depth.” With a few deft strokes, the flower came to life and turned into a daisy.

“Do you really think I can do this Mama?” Belle touched the flower with her fingertip.

Her mother laughed. “Of course you can! You just need to practice.” She gave Belle a quick squeeze. “I think you will do a wonderful job.”

Belle was filled with confidence. She went over and over the complicated stitches needed to create the lovely effects for her masterpiece. Painstakingly, she sewed and re-sewed fern, satin and chain stitches as well as the fly stitch, which her mother thought would look good on the border as a background for the flowers.

Finally, she felt ready to start sewing on the beautiful piece of material that her mother had given her.

Belle tried to be careful as she stitched the first flower on the cloth. But when she looked at it with a critical eye, it was not at all what she'd imagined. With a sigh, she picked out the stitches and started over. It had to be perfect.

Belle worked and reworked the stitching until she was satisfied it was as good as she could make it, but every night when she put the cloth away, she wished she'd done an even better job.

“I think it looks wonderful, Belle,” her mother said one evening when she checked on the progress of the cloth.

Belle felt a little better, but she still worried the cloth wasn't perfect enough to guarantee that she would win.

While working on her sewing, Belle noticed her father also looked worried, but she knew it had nothing to do with embroidery. News had come from Fish Creek that
on April 24th there had been a big battle between the Metis and a General Middleton who was in command of the government forces. It had been a victory for the Metis, but reports of new battles were coming more and more often, and Belle wondered what was going to happen. It had been reported that five thousand government troops were coming on the new Canadian Pacific Railway to help in the fight against the Metis. This seemed strange to Belle because her papa said they had only three hundred Metis who could fight.

Monsieur Dumont had the men setting up defenses and digging fortifications called rifle pits in case they were attacked. Everyone hoped the pits wouldn't be needed, but they kept digging them anyway.

When Belle was walking home one day, she noticed that several of the earthwork pits had been dug along the edge of the cemetery. She shivered. The large open holes so close to the graves filled her with foreboding. They were so well hidden that you would never see anyone crouching there until it was too late.

Belle walked on past the church and onto Jolie Prairie, the wide-open expanse of grassland where the Humboldt Trail crossed the trail to St. Laurent. The air was chilly and she wondered if real spring was ever going to come. The gray poplars and leafless willows reached out from the dead prairie grass as though pleading with the sun to share more of her warmth. A soft breeze had sprung up and it sounded like the world was sadly sighing.

Belle turned toward home on the outskirts of Batoche away from all the other houses. She loved where her parents had built their home. It was on a slight rise. You could see down across the town and all the shops on the main street to where the ferryboat crossed the big river. On summer evenings, when the sun was disappearing into the green sea of grass far in the distance, the town looked as if it were made of rose-colored buildings surrounded by motes of golden dust. The grasshoppers would be chirping as Belle sat on her porch steps breathing in the fragrant evening air.

Today, as she started along the edge of the ridge she noticed something strange about the embankment beneath her feet. Wooden boards ran along the edge of the cliff and what looked to be an old door was set into the side of the hill. It was nearly covered with old grass and leaves. Belle would never have seen it if she hadn't decided to cut across the slope to save time. She was supposed to be home doing her embroidery, not tramping around looking for hidden rifle pits.

Investigating further, she discovered a handle on the weathered door and pulled. It groaned and creaked, then something splintered and the heavy door opened a little. Belle peered into the darkness inside. The air was musty and smelled of mould and damp earth. It was an abandoned root cellar where vegetables would have been stored to keep them through the winter.

Belle carefully lowered the weathered door. She put her hands on her hips. How about that! All the years she'd lived here and she'd never noticed this old root cellar before. It was so overgrown with grasses
and Saskatoon bushes that no one would have known it was here.